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Sis wears combat boots in the front seatBecause they’reFine fuel for family feudMama weeps white wine, wicks, and wax,While she worries over the blank blackAnd the Ouija wood.

She presses her mind flat against her sole-windowLicking the light from her lips and pawing the pennies in her pocket.She knows she can’t afford to understand andPresses closer in her mammogram of the mind.

She drips drool for dual dimensionality whereDaddy long-dregs, lumps and knots, are too thinTo think through,Since switchblades and skulls are easier to not knowThat which cocktail to offer her husband’s girlfriendIf she wears high heels when she picks him up.

While boots bang and mama mews,I sit in the back.The streetlights slip beneath my glasses andI can see my eyes in them.

There is a grace to parenthoodAnd so there must be a fall.I gaze at my daughter --A self untested, uncertainBut pureWearing a purple dressLooking not small but miniatureA cameo impression of a future selfComposed and separateGoing off to a danceOr to college or to workWalking just as she does now(A little more steady)Posture just as straightStriding without looking backAcross some future lawnThe same person but biggerAnd gone.

I miss her alreadyI cannot see her enoughHuman perception is too smallIt rattles like a peaIn the vast box of a single second.The loss cannot be reckonedThe predicamentIs too peculiar to mention:I stand indicted by a future selfFor the crime of divided attention.So I stareGrabbing at the swift flow of time;Fistfuls of stream waterStanding five feet away from my daughterUntil my eyes begin to blur:

The daze were grey-Until teased W/ forcible heatAndExultation.Streaming dead plantsAndLeftovers from lunch-Lurch out for me.Like condescending bastards.I see them everywhere AndYet they don’t see themselves.Should I apologize for being a shiny surface?OrMimic garbage to Infect our universal disease?These streetsOfAsbestos construction-Trendy coffee drinksAndSerial killer lies.Ponder the inadequacies OfMan and the wasted potentialGifted in every breath.If no one reads this will I die w/ solace?Do wounded animals get struckFor their recompense AndSupposed sin against the curious?Where’s the love in this sea of arrogantJeers- Whispered across metal tablesAndOverpriced meals.I die a little against the click-clackOfLeaves against brickAndFeel the eerie warm breezeIn November, Slightly marred by tomorrow’s supposed rain.

This is a poem I wrote in 1994 for a writing class. It was based on a painting (which became the title of the poem).

Women in a Brothel, 1893 (Toulouse-Lautrec)

They are not young, fixed'round a table heavy withdark, bitter wine and young menthere but no longer thereseeking distant intimacy withwomen who are youngbut not young

loose, soft curls become tightfaded buns, breasts no longer roundin the palms of arrogant menbut shapeless, sore, melting in thetired folds of skin beneath their arms,memory etched like lacework alongthe corners of mouths and eyes,expressionless, they gazenot at each other, but at

corseted girls with red lips,all new blossomssoon becomingblackened, powdered rosesslipping unnoticed frombetween the pages of adiary read by a stranger.

Behold the wrath of the cat in the bath.Legs rigidand perpendicular to his torso,tail positionedat an inconvenient anglethe cat transforms himselfinto a turgid five-pronged obstacleyou don't so much bathe as wrangle.

Once wet, the cat's fur— not to mention his purr —is so flattened it's absent.Lost in a slather of spa water and sudsthe catis only half the size he was.The subsequent yowling and nail-on-chalkboard scratchingshould come as no surprise.I can think of humans who would considereven a temporary reduction in sizea situation only fit for litigation.

The irony is that when it comes to being cleanthe cat is already a pro. Who else will persist in daily self-preeningwith so much gusto?Still, people insist on baths for cats.The tendency to obsessover certain points of viewis nothing new.Wars have been started over less.

The Ballad of Big Mike and William(to be read aloud in your best Western twang)by Ian Healy

There once were two cowboysReal men of the landThey rode over prairieAnd strode over sandThey came to the WestIn search of the goldThey stayed for the restAnd planned to grow old

The first was named MichaelMcGillicuddy WhiteA man of great girthAnd similar heightAll the folks in townJust called him Big MikeA cranky old fat manWho nobody liked

The second was slenderAnd thin as a whipHe scowled all the timeDid William Von TrippHis vices were manyHe liked women and drinkAnd losing at pokerHe'd raise up a stink

It happened one dayThat these two men did meetAt Johnny Kay's BarOver on Main StreetBilly Cole played pianoMarguerite served up ginAnd Big Mike and WilliamWere looking to sin

They sat at the tableAnd Mike dealt the cardsWhile William drank whiskeyFrom a quart Mason jarThey tippled and gambledOn into the nightUntil William cheatedWhich started a fight

Big Mike threw the first punchA great powerful rightSent William down the barOut the door like a kiteWilliam started yellingAnd reached for his gunThen Sheriff Tom WyattSaid "hold on there, son!"

"Now this here's my townAnd you boys broke the peaceYou settle up like gentlemenNow desist and cease!"But Big Mike wouldn't have itAnd called William a cheatAnd the two men agreedTo shoot it out in the street

"Now hang on a minute,"Cried Big Mike in a huff"This ain't hardly fairAnd this ain't no bluff!I'm two times as fatAs him, maybe three!I oughtta stand twice as closeTo him as he does to me!"

The Sheriff conferredWith the Elders of the townAnd they all agreedThat rules must be laid downSo the duel would be fairEach would have equal chanceTo shoot at the otherIn fair circumstance

The Sheriff took upSome coal from the minesDown Big Mike's frontHe drew parallel lines"All right, you can fight,But now you hear this...Any bullets outside the linesOnly count as a miss."

The rogue slipped through the black of nightHidden there from mortal sight.His footsteps soft as falling snow.His mission one so few did know.With daggers strapped tight to his side.The foe could find no place to hide.

He traveled far across the land.Which often seemed at his command.No blade of grass he left there bent.To show the places where he went.With daggers strapped tight to his side.The foe could find no place to hide.

He found the hiding place at lastThe guards he quickly darted pastThe object he was sent to findHad long ago been left behind.With daggers strapped tight to his side.The foe could find no place to hide.

He gathered it into his capeAnd quickly made fast his escape.The precious object close to him.He faded then and grew so dim.With daggers strapped tight to his side.The foe could find no place to hide.

Then later on that very eve.His bag of gold he did receive.For bringing home the treasured pieceThat all now hope would restore peace.His daggers strapped tight to his side.The foe could find no place to hide.

He found an inn to drink an aleAnd slake the thirst from dusty trailWhen a sheriff passed him byAnd nearly looked him in the eye.His daggers strapped tight to his side.The foe could find no place to hide.

He quietly drifted up the stairsAvoiding notice, looks and stares.He picked a lock to chamber door.And slipped across the bedroom floor.His daggers strapped tight to his side.The foe could find no place to hide.

“My darling have you come to me?”He heard her ask so dreamily.He looked around and saw her there.Hair so lovely and skin so fair.He whispered, “love don’t ask me this.”And quelled her question with a kiss.

“How long I’ve waited for your thrill.My need for you to once fulfill.What changed your mind, what drew you here?At last to grace me with love’s cheer?He whispered, “love don’t ask me this.”And quelled her question with a kiss.

She lifted high on passion’s wing.He made her mind and body sing.She mumbled low, “I still don’t see.Why you have come at last to me.”He whispered, “love don’t ask me this.”And quelled her question with a kiss.

He took her higher than the sun.Her hair and virtue both undone.“How can I wait until we wed?Now that you’ve come at last to bed?”He whispered, “love don’t ask me this.”And quelled her question with a kiss.

And when they lay at last so calmHer whisper soothing as a balm.“I hope you’ll stay with me awhile,”She said with hopeful, tender smile.He whispered, “love don’t ask me this.”And quelled her question with a kiss.

In moonlight pale he saw her wink.“Lover, dearest, you make me think.That I would hope you come to me.Though to another I married be.”He whispered, “love don’t ask me this.”And quelled her question with a kiss.

Anything by Shakespeare works for me, although at the moment, I'm particularly taken with the St. Crispin's Day speech from Henry V (Act IV, Scene III -- http://shakespeare.mit.edu/henryv/henryv.4.3.html)

I'm afraid my best contributions to this branch of literature usually feature the word "Nantucket" and don't aspire much higher than bathroom-wall grafitti.

I have not heard lutes beckon me, nor the brazen bugles call,But once in the dim of a haunted lea I heard the silence fall.I have not heard the regal drum, nor seen the flags unfurled,But I have watched the dragons come, fire-eyed, across the world.

I have not seen the horsemen fall before the hurtling host,But I have paced a silent hall where each step waked a ghost.I have not kissed the tiger-feet of a strange-eyed golden god,But I have walked a city's street where no man else had trod.

I have not raised the canopies that shelter revelling kings,But I have fled from crimson eyes and black unearthly wings.I have not knelt outside the door to kiss a pallid queen,But I have seen a ghostly shore that no man else has seen.

I have not seen the standards sweep from keep and castle wall,But I have seen a woman leap from a dragon's crimson stall,And I have heard strange surges boom that no man heard before,And seen a strange black city loom on a mystic night-black shore.

And I have felt the sudden blow of a nameless wind's cold breath,And watched the grisly pilgrims go that walk the roads of Death,And I have seen black valleys gape, abysses in the gloom,And I have fought the deathless Ape that guards the Doors of Doom.

I have not seen the face of Pan, nor mocked the Dryad's haste,But I have trailed a dark-eyed Man across a windy waste.I have not died as men may die, nor sin as men have sinned,But I have reached a misty sky upon a granite wind.

Yay for thumb drives! I found this little bugger, a prose poem about a murder. Gotta love my college aged morbidity...

The day I died, the oars were found, floating like lost ducklings among the reeds. When John raised one high, with that shout of his (Mother always said would raise the dead) the moss hung down like weepy tears. And there I was, only watching, and knowing the thoughts ran tandem through their heads, startled into surprised action by John's yell: She drowned herself... Couldn't face the consequences... Drowned herself... But John knew where to look, knew where to look and smiled into my dead face as if he knew I watched.

Golfers will tell youThey’ll hit 100 bad shotsto hit onewhere the sweet spot of clubmeets the sweet spot of the ballmaking the sound you always think ofwhen you think of a golf ball being hitDriving the ball straight down the fairwayThe club feels so good in you handsyou forgot the last 100 shotsThe one in the treesthe one you losttaking a dropThe one you sliced so badly on 9it hit a cart at the tee box on 8All forgotten ready to hit 100 moreinto the sandthe roughand the water hazardJust to hear that sound

Poetry’s the sameyou write 100 bad poemsAbout the girl that cheated on youor the one you think cheated on youbut could never prove but that’s okay because you cheated on herThat time you told her you out of townwhen you were actually down the streetspending the weekend with that girlyou both work with that she can’t standthat you want to sleep with but act like you can’t stand so she won’t think anything is going onJust to write that one poemThe one you don’t cringe when you readthe one that’s as good on paper as it was in your headThe one a reader getseven though they had to work for itGiving you a type of bond with themEncouraging you to write 100 moreAbusing metaphorscomparing sailing to freedomlove to just about everythingand golf to poetry

Over the dulling years,you write poems for hundreds of women-about love, the impossibility of love,the way light bounces off the edgeof a table. Those survive best-the ones about light, that is.

Very few write back.It's like a long correspondencewith an autistic child: Every cry'sa cause for ecstacy. The ones who doalways say something about Chopin:How it is difficult to sleep to his music,how the dance of your tongue to his nocturnesseems insincere.

It could go on like this forever.You develop theories about Jungian typology,the specialized function of the sides of the brain.You begin looking at furniture as if it mattered.You reflect upon the multiple meanings of silence.

There's one consolation-You know all this must be teaching you something.About love.About language.

Sorry, I come a bit late to this party. Sunday is typically my day for a bit of poetry on my blog. Today, I've added this old favourite.

The Son, by Clifford Dyment

I found the letter in a cardboard box,Unfamous history. I read the words.The ink was frail and brown, the paper dryAfter so many years of being kept.The letter was a soldier's, from the front -Conveyed his love and disappointed hopeOf getting leave. "It's cancelled now," he wrote."My luck is at the bottom of the sea."

Outside the sun was hot; the world looked bright;I heard a radio, and someone laughed.I did not sing, or laugh, or love the sun.Within the quiet room I thought of him,My father killed, and all the other men,Whose luck was at the bottom of the sea.

If you must have one of my own too.... well, here's a little piece of frivol:

The Shadow Thief

He thinks of himself as a collectorHe likes shadows, collects themHe sneaks up behind peopleWhen they're not lookingAnd snatches their shadows away

It is easyPeople seldom lookAt their shadows

He takes them homeStores them in a cupboardSteals and stores, steals and storesSaves them for a sunny day

The shadows don't like the darkThey form a unionPlan an escape, break outTogether, they create the Night

One by John Donne, called Woman's Constancy, suggesting some reasons his lover might give for dumping him:NOW thou hast loved me one whole dayTo-morrow when thou leavest, what wilt thou sayWilt thou then antedate some new-made vow?Or say that nowWe are not just those persons which we were?Or that oaths made in reverential fearOf Love, and his wrath, any may forswear?Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,So lovers' contracts, images of those,Bind but till sleep, death's image, them unloose?Or, your own end to justify,For having purposed change and falsehood, youCan have no way but falsehood to be true?Vain lunatic, against these 'scapes I couldDispute, and conquer, if I would;Which I abstain to do,For by to-morrow I may think so too.

You said you liked rhyme, so here is one of my own, in a different style:

There was a young lady called LydiaWhose sex life just couldn't be giddier;She cared not a rapFor the pox or the clapBut was terribly scared of chlamydia.

I hope it isn't too narcissistic of me to leave two (three!) offerings.... and to drag my new blog-buddy Tony over here as well (by the way, everyone, read his blog).... but I rather like this little thing about the experience of reading poetry. My friend, The Poet, about the best writer I know (though, alas, she is "far too busy" to have any time for blogs), said this was about her favourite of all the stuff of mine I've shown her.

Slow Boil

A poem is like the watched pot of the proverbIt doesn't like to be seen going about its businessIf you fix it with your stareIt will grow obstinate, impassive, inert

But let it lie unheededAttend to something else awhileAnd soon enough the kitchen of your mindGrows dense with steamThe singing of the kettle-whistleThe possibility of tea

When I was a teacher, I always hated the idea that for the kids literature - and especially poetry! - so easily became just "work", just an excuse for exercises and discussions and comprehension questions and essays; it was never allowed to be just reading, just FUN. So, one of the little tricks I adopted was to fairly regularly (not every class, or even every week, but two or three times a term) give out a poem, short or long, at the end of a class, and when the students clamoured to know if there was homework to be set on it, or questions in the end-of-term exam, or analysis in the next class, I'd just say, "No. Nothing. You don't need to answer any questions on it. You don't need to bring to class next time. I don't even insist that you read it. I'll never mention it again. I just hope that you will keep it. And that you might choose to read it sometime. And that you might one day come to understand and enjoy it. And if you'd like to ask me anything about it in private, that's fine; but, really, we are never going to discuss it in class. It's just a bit of fun."

It took some of the kids an awfully long time to get used to the idea. And I'm not sure if it really did any good. One can but hope....